Never Another
by brit.brutal
Summary: A profound examination of House and Wilson's relationship throughout the years. Before Season 1, from Seasons 1-8, and after. All of the angst, all of the romance. Better description inside. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Never Another  
Genres: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, ANGST, romance  
Rating: Past T, for language and later sexuality/adult situations  
Season: Will jump around a lot from 1-8 and there will also be quite a few segments that  
occur before Season 1, back when Wilson and House were much younger.  
**Warnings:**** The aforementioned adult themes, language, etc. Also, if you have not seen  
Season 8 yet, or have not spoiled yourself with what happens, or are unaware of anything  
from the season, please do not read this.**  
Summary: AU in some places. I have changed some instances around so my idea could work. This  
story is an examination of the deep friendship of Greg House and James Wilson. The storyline  
is hardly chronological and I apologize if that is annoying to some readers. A lot of my AU  
will come from the early days of the doctors' friendship. If you continue to read as I  
continue to write, you'll see what I mean. There will never be another House and Wilson.

"Still to come,  
The worst part and you know it,  
There is a numbness,  
In your heart and it's growing."  
-The Shins, 'A Comet Appears'

Snippet #1:  
5 Months to Go

Wilson had fallen ill later that evening after the motorcycle ride in the brisk, crisp, and not too damaging wind. House decided, however much he wanted his friend to see the Atlantic from the coast of Rhode Island, he wouldn't push him. And if Wilson wanted, House would take him home should the oncologist ask to leave the vacation early. Such possibilities of picking up and leaving made House glad that they took a plane down here and rented the bikes. He really didn't need or want a queasy Wilson being absolutely miserable should they have rode House's motorcycle down here. There would have been constant stops and no doubt they would have made Wilson sicker, more exhausted, all from being stressed out over causing problems for his friend and slowing him down.

So, instead, they would stay in the hotel room they rented out. House figured they could watch TV (hopefully something interesting on Animal Planet, like the history of mermaids or whatever it was; he was just about sick of the news and hearing about yet another person in the U.S who has eaten their roommate. Not only that, anytime Wilson heard of such tragedies, he would bold out of the room to promptly vomit from such distaste, like a pregnant woman and her new-found low tolerance when it came to upchucking from anything.

House looked around the smallish room. They could play cards. They could go to the hotel lobby and House would monopolize the piano, assuming this stinkin' ass place had a piano, but then again, what hotel didn't?

"Boring ones," House murmured to himself. "Or the ones where they check in, but they don't check out. Only idiot tenants and idiot hotels."

He was laying in bed, legs stretched out in front of him for miles, with his hands folded over his chest. Wilson snorted in his sleep from his own bed. It was a thick and dry sound, most likely accompanied by all of the mucus in his system. House chuckled at the thought of Wilson picking his nose and wiping it on the hotel sheets in the middle of his sleep. The chuckle that ensued was short-lived and was replaced with a certain terror that pulled at his stomach and tried to manipulate it into all shapes, some that didn't even exist.

What if Wilson is too sick now to do anything? What if his immune system was shot all to hell?

Did I do this? Greg House did have a talent for absolute destruction and ruination of others. Or so it was hinted at over the years by a handful of people.

Wilson turned fluidly in his sleep. The bed didn't creak; its occupant didn't grunt. He was now facing House. The latter saw peace on the former's slumbering face. One of Wilson's arms was hugging his torso, his hand resting safely beneath his cheek. It smooshed his face some and made his eye look completely deformed and crooked in its socket. House felt nothing but a rush of pure love for his friend at that moment. It was an image he would be doomed never to forget and he knew it would hurt him soon enough as affection quickly turned to a soured and prickling feeling at the pit of his gut.

Did I get him sick from forcing him to do this? Maybe picked up a bug somewhere? What was this? Guilt for the first time in his life? Actual concern? Wasn't it Greg House who said that nobody really cared about anybody else until somebody was dying, or something like that?

James Wilson coughed. There was an obvious surplus of phlegm in there, much like what a habitual smoker wakes up to when they have smoked more than their regular number of cigarettes. A scary phlegm that seems to get stuck and won't go away in the middle of the third hour of the morning.

If he's drowning, I'll drown with him. Hear that, Wilson?

Wilson's lips smacked in unconscious response. He was angelic. And Gregory House never loathed another living thing in his entire existence more than he did in the soft and kind moments that James Wilson unknowingly, slowly killed him with.


	2. Chapter 3

Title: Never Another

Genres: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, ANGST, romance

Rating: Past T, for language and later sexuality/adult situations

Season: Will jump around a lot from 1-8 and there will also be quite a few segments that

occur before Season 1, back when Wilson and House were much younger.

Warnings: The aforementioned adult themes, language, etc. Also, if you have not seen

Season 8 yet, or have not spoiled yourself with what happens, or are unaware of anything

from the season, please do not read this.

Disclaimer: I do not own this show. It belongs to David Shore, et al. I also don't own the songs that I use as openings to the snippets of my story-they belong to whoever I cite under the quotes.

Summary: AU in some places. I have changed some instances around so my idea could work. This story is an examination of the deep friendship of Greg House and James Wilson. The storyline is hardly chronological and I apologize if that is annoying to some readers. A lot of my AU will come from the early days of the doctors' friendship. If you continue to read as I continue to write, you'll see what I mean. There will never be another House and Wilson.

"On the day my habits catch up with me,

I'll be down among the jumpers."

The Mountain Goats, 'Song for Dennis Brown'

"I need you to be my friend."

"I'm fine. I dont need you right now."

"Talk to me, please." A pause, giggling in the background of the other person's line. "House!"

"Can't. I only paid her for two hours. First hour's almost up. Nite-nite, Wilson."

Then the line went dead.

Wilson threw his phone as hard as possible against the wall. He wouldn't look at it until later and if it was broken, he could afford a new one regardless of the fact that it wasn't time for an upgrade yet. He hated being wasteful like that just because he had the finances to do so. And if it was broken, that meant he wouldn't be able to answer any calls. Well, good. He hoped that would make some people worry. It was never until he was unreachable that everyone wanted something to do with him. Oh, well. That beat unlocking his Blackberry a thousand times every other hour andwilling messages or missed calls to be there. That, or hoping that the red light on the top right corner of the piece would be blinking whenever he shot it furative glances from across the room and the outlet it was charging at. Useless thing.

And it wasn't like him to have this sort of..._kingly_ level of melodrama, but sometimes, he just supposed that everyone had to be overwhelmingly and unbearingly dramatic especially when alone and disappointed. Some more than others. But it wasn't uncommon for meeker and more well-adjusted people such as himself to experience such flipouts. That wasn't fair, though, seeing as how he wasn't _that _well-adjusted, cheating on wives and being able to live with it or without guilt knocking around every other corner in wait for him. Didn't the confessions count as recompense, at least? And not only that, he was supposed to be thinking of his friend at this point.

He knew it'd been a year since House's infarction (oh, how House wouldn't let anyone forget another month anniversary of it), but he was living like a hedonist in dealing with the newfound pain. Not that that was an issue in the slightest or any different than how he lived before the surgery-well, maybe it was a _bit _ more tamed because of Stacy's presence-when hedonism was just for fun and a sure-fired way that he would get what he want. But now Stacy was gone and House was convinced that he was alone for good. This was somethign House never stated, but Wilson just _knew_. Wilson couldn't understand that. He knew that he couldn't replace a lover or anything comparable to that, but he was the man's only true friend and this was something House always seemed to conveniently forget.

What was it, a different hooker every night? Wilson supposed House was convinced he didn't deserve anyone else but a hooker. Or maybe the older man's narcissism didn't work that way. Maybe there was no self-loathing involved. He usually came to Wilson whenever he felt like it was _that_ time again to be pitied. But there had hardly been any of that since the surgery. Instead, it had been House trying to live as hard and as fast as possible. It was almost like he was challenging Wilson to catch up because the only time he wanted anything to do with his old friend was when he was up for a night of camraderie and debauchery. Other than that, he hardly heard from the ass anymore. That still didn't deter Wilson from calling his friend everyday. And when House would forgo all calls whether it be by letting his phone ring to voicemail or pressing the fuck you button, Wilson still did not miss at least one call a day.

And, as he lay on the sofa in his office, forearm shiedling his eyes, he thought about how he absolutely did not want to go home tonight. It was already quarter to nine and if she hadn't called his office phone by now, she was probably asleep and probably wasn't missing him just because she had gotten over being used to missing him. That, and she made some new girlfriends from a crocheting club that she went and visited some nights while he was away. That was good. He didn't have to feel guilty choosing to spend the night sleeping in his office and going home to get a change of clothes when she would be at work.

He would lay here for another hour and thirty minutes or so and then go check on House and come back here to shower and sleep for a few hours. Maybe call his wife if he had time or wasn't too tired.

He forced himself into a sitting position and looked over to the wall his phone hit before it fell to the floor. A red light was flickering steadily. He walked over to it. Text message.

"You coming over or what?"


	3. Chapter 4

Title: Never Another

Genres: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, ANGST, romance

Rating: Past T, for language and later sexuality/adult situations

Season: Will jump around a lot from 1-8 and there will also be quite a few segments that

occur before Season 1, back when Wilson and House were much younger.

Warnings: **The aforementioned adult themes, language, etc. Also, if you have not seen**

**Season 8 yet, or have not spoiled yourself with what happens, or are unaware of anything**

**from the season, please do not read this.**

Disclaimer: I do not own this show. It belongs to David Shore, et al. I also don't own the songs that I use as openings to the snippets of my story-they belong to whoever I cite under the quotes.

Summary: AU in some places. I have changed some instances around so my idea could work. This story is an examination of the deep friendship of Greg House and James Wilson. The storyline is hardly chronological and I apologize if that is annoying to some readers. A lot of my AU will come from the early days of the doctors' friendship. If you continue to read as I continue to write, you'll see what I mean. There will never be another House and Wilson.

"Now think of all the years you tried to

Find someone to satisfy you

I might be as crazy as you say.

If I'm crazy then it's true

That it's all because of you

And you wouldn't want me any other way."

Billy Joel, 'You May Be Right'

Snippet #4:

2010

"Can we go now? I've had five cups. My belly's full and hot. I might throw up." He shut one eye in a contemplative way and stared down to the bottom of his cup. There was a small amount left. Just enough to make it sick should he choose to finish it off.

"Don't be a wimp, Wilson." House stirred another packet of fake sugar into his now room temperature coffee. "And 'bottomless cup' doesn't mean, 'James Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist, drink as many as possible in an hour.' We sip and enjoy." Almost to prove his point, he raised the porcelain mug to his lips and slurped loudly.

"Oh, please, you're only here because you're spying on someone!" Wilson tried to keep as quiet as possible, not that there were many patrons in the small coffee shop he and House stepped into hours ago. At first, it was fine. It was raining and a bit chilly outside. But after so many cups of coffee with different sweeteners and different flavored creamers, Wilson was ready to go. Or at least ready for a glass of milk or something other than coffee.

"Wilson, how long have we been...doing this thing?" House waved his hand around in attempt to grab words he didn't want to or feel like saying and hoped Wilson would get it.

"What, being friends?"

"And you still allow yourself to be surprised by my shit." House pointed his wooden stirrer at his only friend. Some liquid flung from it and touched Wilson's cheek.

Wilson sighed and hastily wiped his face clean. "I have had to deal with every level of your shit in all kinds of ways and-"

"Yeah, voluntarily, ergo, you have no right to bitch. You do this to yourself."

"And I guess you've never heard me on the multiple occasions that my theory of friendship is that we really don't get to pick and choose."

"That's only what losers say because no one has asked to be their friend. Now be quiet-I've missed so much of Philip Seymour Hoffman slash Robert Downey Jr.'s conversation." House returned his gaze to the man he had previously been 'spying' on, as Wilson put it. The man was a couple of tables away, laptop on and blasting a heinous glow, iPhone glued to his ear. Both electronics sucking up more electricity in the entire coffee shop than any kitchen appliance at work behind the counter.

"What?" Wilson turned halfway around in his seat and caught a glimpse of the man House was currently transfixed on, and then back to House. He didn't want to confirm the man looked like Hoffman dressed in laundry day clothes and shared identical speech pattern and vocabulary as Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark.

House continued as though he didn't hear Wilson, like usual. Or maybe he really didn't hear. "Seriously, who talks on their phone for over a half hour and doesn't shut up once to listen to comments or questions from the other end?"

Wilson rolled his eyes to the point of pushing them out of his skull. "Here we go."

"Not one pause. Either he's talking into the voice recorder or he's really talking to someone else. There's a good chance its not the recorder. He's too candid. Apple software; I'm guessing business man."

Wilson dropped his palm flat on the small table. "Why?" His shoulder twitched with the syllaball in an annoyed shrug.

Completely avoiding Wilson's questioning once more, House perked up with a new observation, "Oop. James Mercer's taller, more-haired older brother just joined the table."

"Does he have a guitar? Is it a nice acoustic Gibson?" His tone presented false piqued interest.

"No way. This Mercer didn't luck out by talent like bald, little bro Jimmy."

"Is he dressed in beggar, ragamuffin clothes?"

"Sweaty black polo with a company logo stitched on, khaki pants that almost fit, and loafers that could be expensive, but probably purchased at a Macy's clearance sale. He's working for Hoff-Oh, my God. What a dick." He all but snickered at the last sentence.

"Yes, yes. What's happening?"

"Big Brother Mercer walked up to Hoffman to say hello-"

"Yes, yes?"

"And Hoffman stuck out a chunk arm and along with his bicep flap giving the room hot air circulation, he shoved his coffee cup in big bro's face, forcing him to get a refill. And didn't give him the money for it."

Wilson looked to the ceiling, deep in thought, before coming up with, "What person would do that? Besides you, I mean."

Houses's jaw dropped. Wilson couldn't tell if it was in sarcasm or sincerity. "I have never done that!"

"Oh, please, you opened a tab in the cafeteria under my name just so you could further mooch off me! And we both know the cafeteria doesn't open tabs!"

"Please! Giving you a lunch bill and allowing you to give back to the cafeteria is the least I could do for keeping you out of the big house because of that buck you stole from them. Seriously, you steal a measly buck and Taub gets to see Thirteen's tits? What kind of Truth or Dare player are you?"

"That was two weeks ago. Not only that, shut up." Wilson drank from the dregs of sugar at the bottom of his cup. "What's going on with Robert Downey Jr.?"

House scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Philip Seymour Hoffman. I told you he only sounds like Robert Downey. Must have gone all The Little Mermaid and stole his voice. We all know he shares Ursula's pant size."

"And stuffed the voice in the sea shell he's wearing as a secret necklace under the folds of his shirt, no doubt."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away."

Wilson spared a look for the check out counter. "Oh, my God. He has the same forehead and eyebrows as James Mercer!"

"Told you."

"He's coming back."

"Well, quit staring! Oi, can't take you anywhere!"

Wilson gave the most incredulous look he could muster. "Are you-"

House went into a fake coughing fit, loud and juicy enough to cause what patrons were in the cafe to turn their full blown attention to him. Big Brother Mercer looked down at the both of them, stepping back slightly out of the supposed germ zone.

"Excuse me, little sir. You see, I've run out of coffee and I have a bum leg. And since you seem to be THAT GUY who's currently making sure everyone gets their refills, here's my cup." He started waving the mug back and forth in the man's face.

The man narrowed his eyes at the sitting doctor. "There's still coffee in here."

"But its cold and hurting my tummy. I'm a doctor-I'd hate to throw up all over everyone whenever I decide to go back to work."

The man grabbed the mug and sat it down on House and Wilson's table and went back to Philip Seymour Hoffman/Robert Downey Jr.

"I'm ready to go if you're finished embarrassing yourself in public for the day." Wilson's voice cut in and House finally tore his attention away from the business men across the way.

"You're not the dad of me! I do what I want!" He slurped loudly from his mug once more before standing and leaving the cafe with it.


End file.
